Claws
by International08
Summary: Her kitten isn't the only one with claws. Follows "Fluff" and "Warm and Fuzzy," picking up on January 2nd in the Minnie-verse. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: Hey, all you young'uns turn around now, please. **

**To the rest of you, apparently I'm not very good at resisting peer pressure. Also, yes, still a tease. But give them time.**

* * *

><p>As soon as he steps far enough through the frame, hand nudging at the small of her back, she whirls and uses his body to close the door. His right shoulder blade collides with the wood, followed by the left, and oh, she's not going to be gentle with him, is she?<p>

Her hand sneaks between his arm and torso and he hears the quiet click of the deadbolt.

"Kate?" he manages to gasp out, but her mouth covers his before he has a chance to ask any questions.

Long fingers curl into the front of his shirt, tugging the fabric into her fists. Any harder and she'll rip it right off of him. He wouldn't complain.

They ate breakfast with his daughter. Laughed over pancakes (she whisper-asked if it meant what she thought it did, and he murmured yes, even if they haven't done anything more than literally sleep together - he's thankful for her, thankful to her). And then they made some excuses and hurried out.

Not to the precinct. Not to a crime scene.

To her apartment.

And now, she has him pressed against her front door, every curve of her body molded to every hard line of his, filling each other's hollow places. Well, not all of her hollow places. But there's plenty of time for that. And he wants to enjoy what comes first. Or who, as the case may be.

He fully intends for it to be her.

Castle isn't sure what he expected to happen when they arrived at her apartment, but this wasn't exactly it.

He'd expected slower, maybe - cuddling on the couch that turned into making out on the couch that turned into her gently leading him by the fingertips into her bedroom. He'd pictured deep, lingering kisses as he carefully divested her of first her shirt and then her pants, and then everything else.

But she's ferocious instead, teeth biting at his bottom lip, fingers digging into his sides, one heel (at least she'd kicked her shoes off) pressing against the back of his knee.

She has her claws in him, she's dug in deep. Dislodging her now would rip him to shreds. In more ways than one.

His legs are going to give out if she keeps up this sublime torture much longer though, and that's absolutely *not* how he wants this to go - with him collapsing in her entryway.

Time to fight fire with fire then.

He breaks from her lips - and her tongue..oh damn, her tongue - to trail open-mouthed kisses across her cheek to her ear, nudges the shell with his nose and lets his warm breath wash over the fine hairs of her neck.

Her fingers clench at his sides, and he lifts one hand to cradle her head as he drops his mouth to her clavicle, suckling the skin he finds there. She shudders in his arms, and he hollows his cheeks, increasing the pressure.

He's hoping she has a clean turtleneck to wear to work tomorrow.

"Castle-"

Her voice is breathy in his ear, low and rasping and undeniably sensual, but whatever she might be trying to say dies in her throat when he strokes his free hand down the planes of her back and over the wonderful curve of her ass (where he plans to spend plenty of time later) to curl around the back of her strong thigh, hitching her leg higher and tighter around his hip.

A low groan echoes through the apartment, and he's certain he's never heard a sexier sound in his entire life. She's fully pressed against him now, heat seeping through the thin layers of fabric between them. When did their coats disappear? Yeah, not that their coats matter too much at the moment.

What does matter is the way her fingertips prod at his spine, the way her nails graze his scalp as she holds him to her, the way her breath stutters with every flex of his thumb at her hamstring, the way her heart pounds wild and reckless against his chest.

Her hand leaves his hair to curl around the back of his neck, squeezing rhythmically, keeping time with the beat of his heart. If that's not an example of how well they fit together, he's not sure what is.

Well, actually he can think of something else that would prove how well they fit together. And it seems as if that proof might finally be forthcoming.

He can't hold back his smirk and she feels it, grips his neck and pulls back with a tug, his lips separating from her skin with a wet pop.

"What?" she asks, and after pausing briefly at her red-ripe lips, he meets her gaze.

Her eyes are dark, the green almost gone completely, pupils wide with arousal.

He just smiles.

She shakes her head, soft curls brushing against his hand with the movement.

"Mind out of the gutter, Castle," she says seriously, but the quirk of her mouth gives her away.

He lets his eyes drift over her face, down to the revealed skin between them (and oh, yes, she'll definitely be wearing turtlenecks or boatnecks or completely buttoned-up shirts for the next few days) until he reaches the edge of her collar.

The soft swells of her breasts barely peek out from the fabric, but he can certainly feel her chest against his own, every shallow breath that inflates her lungs pushing her closer to him.

"Did you really think it would be elsewhere, Kate?" he teases, bringing his hand around from the back of her head to brush his thumb across her cheek. "Where's my mind supposed to be when you're wrapped around me like this?"

He can see her almost start to bristle at the semi-joking comment, but then she slides her gaze over their entwined bodies, one hand grasping at his shirt when he readjusts his hold on her leg.

"Yeah," she laughs quietly. "Yeah, you've got a good point."

He loosens his hold on her slightly, a moment away from kissing her gently, somehow sensing that the time for hot and fast is gone and now they'll shift into tender and slow. And then she rolls her hips against his and suddenly it's full speed ahead once more.

* * *

><p>Why did she wait so long to do this?<p>

His body is strong against her, all firm muscle and scorching heat and delicious, delicious friction.

She moans into his mouth, feels his grip tighten on the back of her leg, fingers digging into her flesh.

Closer. She needs to be closer.

She presses her body tighter to his, her breasts flattening against his chest, their lower regions gaining proximity as well. He groans his approval of the idea and she smiles against his lips.

It occurs to her in this moment that they're still standing in the entrance to her apartment when there's a comfy bed waiting for them. Or her couch. Of course, the kitchen island is closer, as are the stairs that hold a fraction of her library.

Really, any number of nearby surfaces would do. And the bed is so very far away.

But, oh, she can just imagine sinking into the soft mattress, his solid weight pinning her, his blue eyes sparking with delight and lust and pure adoration. She can imagine rising up to meet his mouth, feeling the light burn of her abdominals as she strains toward him.

She can envision the look on his face when she flips him.

How his shock will turn to desire. She can feel the way his hands will tighten on her hips, leaving his fingerprints on her skin, physical evidence of their encounter.

Oh.

_Oh._

That's not her imagination at all.

His touch burns at her waist, thumbs working to get at her hipbones. His typing-callused skin grazes the iliac crest on either side, and she jerks into him roughly, movements uncontrolled.

He chuckles, mouth at her ear, lips curling around the cartilage.

"Bed, Castle," she growls. "Now."

Her breath catches in her throat as he slides the other hand around her thigh, hoists her up, and spreads her legs.

Both ankles hook at his lower back, bringing her closer, ever closer. When her arms twine around his neck to press her body flush against him from sternum to pelvis, his eyes slam shut. He stumbles, catches himself in time to keep them from falling, pulls his head back far enough that she can see the dilation of his pupils in dark, vivid detail when he opens his eyes. He grins at her.

"Yes, ma'am."


	2. Chapter 2

He leans back against the wall, scapulae bearing the majority of his weight and hers as he curves his spine to keep her hands and ankles from smashing against the brick. Her mouth works at his throat, his brain fogging further with every passing graze of her teeth.

Shoes. He's glad he didn't wear something with laces today. He shifts his balance to one side, lifts his knee to hold her up and tugs off one shoe, then repeats the series of motions on the other side.

He could have just taken them off when they reached the bedroom, but it was muddy out this morning, and he doesn't want to leave dirty tracks across her floor. Better to save the dirty for later.

"Castle," she drawls into his ear. "What did I say?"

It takes him a moment to realize what she means, a moment longer to understand that he's expected to answer. But really, how is he supposed to think coherently - much less speak? It's impossible when her fingers are twirling in the short hair at his nape, when her legs are tightening around his waist, when he can feel the pulse in her-

Yeah, moving to the bedroom now.

He adjust her position, pulls her a little higher, hands kneading her glutes, and she lets out a little noise that might have been a sigh, might have been a gasp. Either way, her hot breath on his neck startles him, and he falters.

He stubs his left pinky toe on one of the chairs that stand between the front door and her bedroom. He manages not to trip, a little surprised at his own good balance with the way it throbs. She swallows the pained howl that otherwise might have concerned the neighbors, plunges her tongue into his mouth until his agony is of a different variety.

"Want me to kiss it and make it better?" she asks after a moment, lips coasting across his cheek, her voice husky and dripping with the hundreds of loaded looks and thinly veiled come-ons that have passed between them over the past three years.

"Yeah," he gruffs, clears his throat. "In fact, I think I'm hurting all over."

Her arms loosen around his neck and she leans back, away from him, even as her legs squeeze him harder. Mmm...definitely harder.

"Are you now?" she inquires, voice rising in pitch as one finger toys with his earlobe, her other hand sliding around to skirt under the starched collar of his dark red shirt. "All over?"

Her mouth sinks to the hollow of his throat, tongue dipping as her teeth skate up to nibble at his adam's apple.

"Here?"

He nods wordlessly, his sole focus on not dropping her, though she might well have a tight enough grip on his waist that he could let go completely and she wouldn't fall.

"What about here?" she murmurs, shifting slightly, settling her ankles lower around him, one heel pressing against his tailbone as her lips glide against the top of his chest, nose nudging at the placket of his button-up.

Oh. He can't-

She's wearing a thin pair of dress pants and and a flowing green blouse and he can feel everything and it's nothing like his fantasies and it's more - immeasurably more - and how the hell are they both still fully clothed?

"Kate-"

Her legs release, but she gives him no warning. He thinks she's falling and holds her tighter, which - oh.

She lets out a shuddering moan that echoes through the empty apartment. It leaves his mouth dry, rattles in his chest, pools in his stomach. And then races lower, to the part of his traitorous body that her sudden descent has trapped between them.

His heart stutters and his lips part on a noisy exhale, all the air rushing from his lungs at the sensation.

He glances down, sees her doing the same, the expression on her beautiful face one of joyful disbelief, as if she can't quite fathom that they've finally reached this point.

When his eyes finally manage to look beyond the convergence of their bodies, he realizes she's still on tiptoes. She stopped. Halted her downward movement to rest right where she is.

"As I recall," she lilts, drawing his attention back to her face, to the lift of her eyebrow and the curve of her lips, "You told me you weren't able to get a concealed weapon license."

* * *

><p>She loves it when she can get to him. It's <em>one<em> _more_ _button_ and _I_ _do_ _this_ _one_ _thing,_ _with_ _ice_ _cubes_ all over again, and the look on his face is worth any ego boost he might receive from the innuendo.

The hand at his collar slides down to fiddle with the first fastened button of his shirt. Nimble fingers work the fabric, twisting, as her other hand drops from his neck to smooth across his chest.

His heart pounds under her palm, and he still hasn't said a word.

She abandons the button, curls slim digits, raps her knuckles against his sternum.

"You with me here?"

His jaw slowly shuts and he nods.

"You okay?" she asks softly, a hint of teasing still infusing her voice, mingled with the genuine tenderness she feels toward the man in front of her.

He ducks his head swiftly and presses his mouth to hers. Long, slow, deep. And oh so incredibly right.

"I love your mind," he whispers when their lips part.

She looks up at him through dark lashes, finally letting her heels touch the floor. His eyes shut for a moment and then open again as she drifts down his body, friction and heat in all the right places for both of them.

"Just my mind?" she responds, letting her tongue flick out to moisten her lips, watching the way his eyes track the little muscle.

He shakes his head.

"Everything, Kate," he murmurs, sincerity saturating every word. "I love every part of you. But it was your mind I loved first."

That's…not what she expected. Not that she thinks he's shallow. She knows he's not. He's thoughtful and considerate, sees beyond the masks many people (herself included at times) wear.

But she thought it would be something else. Her passion, her drive, maybe the way she pushed through tragedy to become who she is or the way she empathizes with families of the victims.

One hand glides up her back, fingertips feathering across her spine until he can cup her neck in his broad, warm hand.

"You challenged me, from the very beginning, and no one had done that in a very long time."

She drops her eyes down to his chest, focuses on the way her fingers have been unconsciously scratching against his muscles.

But then his hand is at her chin, tilting her head up so she has to look at him.

"You made me think, Kate," he says, his voice vehement. "You made me examine everything from a different point of view. You made me tell better stories."

Heat rises in her cheeks and it strikes her that being wrapped around him, pressed against him didn't make her blush, but a few kind words do the job quite nicely.

"Plus," he continues, and she glances up to see the familiar twinkle returning to his eyes. "You have this wicked quick wit that keeps me on my toes. You always surprise me. I love that."

Lifting herself up on the balls of her feet, she drags her body against his once more (and revels in his pleased groan), kissing him soundly on the lips. Her head slants and she pulls her hand from his collar to curl her fingers around his ear, holding him firmly in place.

She works at his mouth, lips and tongue and teeth all doing their parts while the hand at his chest skims over his abs, feeling the muscles contract under her touch. Her index finger hooks into his waistband, and she tugs.

He takes in a startled breath and her incisors clamp down on his bottom lip, just enough to halt any further movement.

She shifts her hand between them, feels the tension in his frame as he struggles to remain still. Her teeth release his lip, soothing the slightly swollen spot with her tongue.

And then, in one smooth effort, his belt buckle is undone and she's thumbing open the button on his jeans.

He jerks toward her, and she presses right back, lowering her other hand from his ear to pull on either side of the fly until the zipper gives way and she can touch the fabric underneath.

Silk, by the feel of it.

She keeps his mouth otherwise occupied, gently caressing a freshly-shaven cheek with one set of fingers while the other marches around his hips and dives beneath the denim that covers the rear she once admired after he'd had a run-in with an angry guard dog.

She couldn't resist looking then, and she can't resist touching now. Doesn't have to anymore, she realizes, smiling into the kiss. He's hers, and she gives him a quick squeeze in honor of the occasion.

His smile answers her immediately. She can feel it, and her eyes open to find him watching her, all bright cobalt and joyful crinkles.

He bends his neck, leaning his forehead against hers.

"I love you," he sighs, brushing his knuckles to her temple, her ear, her neck.

"Love you too," she whispers, nuzzling his cheek and placing a soft kiss on his lips. "Your mind, your heart, all of you."

He skims both hands down her sides, and then lets them rest on her hips. Oh, that's *nice* - the way his fingers span her slim waist. That feeling brings up all manner of lovely images.

"Body too?" he asks, pressing forward against her.

She drops her other hand, tugging the denim over his hips until it falls to the floor, pooling around his calves. He barks out a little chuckle.

"Mmm," she hums, tongue darting out to sample the corner of his mouth. She wonders if he tastes different when he's laughing. "Let's find out."


	3. Chapter 3

Oh, she's in trouble now.

Strong fingers bracket her hips as he steps forward, the tenderness and ever-present humor in his smile turning predatory.

"And how exactly, my dear detective," he intones, carefully freeing his feet from the jeans that lay tangled on the floor, "do you suggest we go about this 'finding out,' hmm?"

Her eyes drift down his body, linger awhile at his middle. She's tempted to tell him that she no longer needs to find out anything, that he possesses all the information she needs, right there, accentuated by teal striped boxers. She already loves his body.

But when she glances back at his face, he's got that story-telling glint in his eyes, and as much as she wants to just get there and get there now, she knows he'll want to draw out the process - draw out their pleasure - until its inevitable conclusion. So she gives him a pressed lip smile, permission to prolong as much as he likes. And really, she has a feeling she won't be complaining.

"I'm open to suggestions."

He looks at her thoughtfully for a moment, cocks his head, and she shivers in breathless anticipation. A hint of red tongue slides out to moisten his lips, and he nods, squeezing her hips.

"Usually, when there's something we need to figure out," he says slowly, "we begin by walking the scene."

She takes an obliging step backward, and as always, he follows. Another step for her, another step for him. Then another, and another, until they're poised at the threshold of her bedroom.

With his hands still on her hips, it feels a lot like dancing. But with the image of him at a gala or a club (or walking a crime scene, as he mentioned), dressed the way he is now - she can't hold back a laugh.

"What?" he questions her, the corners of his mouth lifting automatically in response to her joy.

She shakes her head.

"If you ever show up to one of my crime scenes dressed like this, in a dress shirt and boxers..."

She trails off when he grins.

"I could take off the boxers, if that would help."

She hums a little, low in her throat, watches as his eyes widen.

"That would lead to the next step," she offers teasingly, and he raises an eyebrow.

"Which would be-"

She pulls her bottom lip just barely between her teeth, gives him a slow blink, drags her eyes down his chest, and then releases the lip to finish his sentence.

"Searching for evidence."

He lets out a little breath, and her gaze bounces back to his face. One hand twitches at her hip to curl around her side, just enough to edge under the hem of her blouse. His fingers are gentle, probing against the sensitive skin at her waist.

"And would this be a strip search?" he asks, his other hand mirroring the first, blazing twin trails of heat an inch or two up either side of her body. "Do you want to go first, or shall I?"

She laughs again, and the dangerous look in his eyes lightens into tenderness.

"You first this time," she says. "I'd like to see if you've learned anything since you started shadowing me."

He smirks.

"Trust me, Detective. I've learned plenty. All the same though, any tips you want to share?"

She presses a hand to his chest, twisting a button between her fingers as she looks up at him through her lashes. Barefoot, she's a few inches shorter than he is.

"You've been working with me for how long now, Castle?"

He smiles, thumbs rubbing softly at her sides. She knows how long she's wanted this, wanted him.

"Since March of oh-nine, so it'll be three years in a couple of months," he says, dipping his head to press a sweet kiss to her lips and then pulling back.

"So you know that you should thoroughly *examine* any evidence you may uncover."

He nods, and lets his thumbs circle higher, the rest of each hand following. Cool air hits her belly, but then he pauses.

"If I'm going to be handling evidence, shouldn't I be wearing gloves?"

She laughs, shakes her head, and when she speaks again, she can hear the drop in her own tone, the sultry smoothness of her voice.

"Not this time, Rick," she says, and he listens, entranced. "This time, the more fingerprints the better."

* * *

><p>Her skin is warm under his fingertips, soft and silky. He glides his hands upward, lets her sides fill his palms. Her eyes slide shut, and she takes a deep breath.<p>

Every inch gained feels like a mountain scaled. Kate Beckett is letting him touch her. Inviting it, actually. _Kate_ _Beckett_. He takes his time, savors the feel of her under his hands - strong muscle and hard bone and delicate skin. Freezing time and staying here forever seems like a pretty damn good idea.

He shakes his head to himself, grateful that her eyes are closed, not sure if he wants her to see just how much he has ached for this moment. He wonders if it makes him pathetic - how long he has followed her around like a faithful puppy, how much he has hoped she would notice him someday.

But as his thumbs catch against her ribcage, her eyes open and everything is laid bare before him, his own need mirrored in hers.

She sets her hands on his forearms, and for a single second he thinks she might pull him away from her. She doesn't.

Instead, her palms press against his wrists, slide over his knuckles, and her fingers fill the hollow spaces between his.

And then they're gone, arms bending and twisting behind her. It takes him a moment to grasp the sight in front of him - his hands spanning her abdomen as she reaches back to unclasp her bra.

"I thought this was supposed to be a strip search," she says throatily.

He has to kiss her for that. Has to pay homage to that wonderful, lightning-fast mind of hers.

His lips curl upward when she kisses him back enthusiastically, arms twining around his neck as she meets every swipe of his tongue with one of her own, moaning at the nip of his teeth on her jaw.

Her fingers tangle in his hair, rasping against his scalp, and he's certain that if every nerve in his body wasn't awake and damn near on fire, that sensation could easily put him to sleep.

It's soothing and familiar. He remembers when Alexis would drift off during a movie, her head in his lap as he played with her hair, scratching gently at the crown of her head.

He wonders if it was the same way with Kate and one of her parents, if it will be the same way when she has a child of her own. Their child, his brain supplies eagerly. Her child with _him_ - because he's never letting her go.

Her hands drift down from his neck to his shoulders. She squeezes his biceps on the way to his forearms and continues on to his wrists. She curls her fingers around each palm and draws their hands upward together, hooking on the hem of her shirt and lifting.

His eyes stay locked on hers. She shudders under his touch as their joined hands smooth across the outer swells of her breasts, but her gaze never wavers from his face.

She doesn't let go of his hands until she absolutely must, and then he takes over the task, pulling the shirt over her head and arms, leaning forward to make sure her long hair doesn't get caught in the process.

When he pulls back, he doesn't look down. He glances to the side, tosses her shirt on the floor next to the simple white bra she must have shrugged off.

And then he meets her eyes. She watches him, her gaze vulnerable, yet defiant. Defiant? Does she think he'll judge her, compare her to the other women he's slept with at some point in the now hazy past?

He knows, just from the way she was pressed against him earlier, that she isn't lacking in assets. Nor is she as thin as she was when she came back to the precinct after the summer. He keeps her stocked with M&M's. And sometimes he orders her a regular latté instead of skinny. He could feel her ribs when he touched her, but there was enough meat on her bones. She's healthy. So what is it?

Castle stands, stock still, waiting for a sign from her. After a moment, she does more than give him a sign. She reaches down and takes one of his hands in both of hers, cradles it carefully. And presses it between her breasts.

His eyes drop to her chest then, and he catches sight of the thin line that demarcates the area where the surgeons performed emergency surgery last May. Where they did what he couldn't do on that too-sunny day - save her life.

Oh. _Oh, Kate_.

He realizes at once the gift she's giving him, the patch of damaged skin his hand protects, the challenge in her eyes to accept what she offers-

-her whole self.

Scars and all.


	4. Chapter 4

She holds his hand to her chest, and she's never felt simultaneously more exposed and more safe. His palm is warm and large, fingers stretching easily to brush the base of her throat.

His free arm shifts from his side, wraps around her, and pulls her into his body. He cradles her thin frame, envelops her, supports her completely within his embrace.

As his hand rises until nearly his whole forearm rests against her spine, his fingers tracing gentle patterns at the nape of her neck, a vague recollection tugs at her brain, a phrase or a poem from her childhood. And then it comes to her - _You_ _hem_ _me_ _in_ _behind_ _and_ _before,_ _and_ _you_ _lay_ _your_ _hand_ _upon_ _me._

It's out of the Bible, she thinks, one of the psalms. The one about being known completely by the Creator.

And though its been years since she attended any kind of church service other than a wedding or funeral, for some reason this passage still remains etched in her memory.

The rest of the words in the psalm made her nervous as a child, worried that if God saw everything she did, she'd be in a lot of trouble. She did have a rebellious streak, even as a kid, and the bit about _you_ _know_ _when_ _I_ _sit_ _and_ _when_ _I_ _rise,_ _you_ _see_ _my_ _thoughts_ _from_ _afar_ - well, she didn't really care for the idea of that.

But now, now she sees the words differently. There's a security in being known so completely by another being, by her tower of strength, her Castle. There's a hope in realizing he could always find her, no matter where she ran. In the heavens or the depths - he'll be there, has been there with her already.

Maybe it's odd, perhaps even wrong, to finally understand the words in this particular context, to grasp them so clearly when she's standing half naked and cocooned in the embrace of a man who lost his pants a few steps back. But maybe not. This is love, right? - to know and be known.

And he does know her. He may say that she's a mystery he'll never solve, but he knows her better than anyone else. Sees her most clearly with all her strengths and her many flaws, and yet he loves her. He's in love with her.

His lips feather across her temple, his head lowering to speak into her ear, quiet and strong and certain.

"I'm so glad you're here with me."

She knows it's more than the excitement of having her breasts pressed tightly against his chest, more than the softness of her skin under his fingertips. It's having her alive and breathing in his arms, when she could have been in a coffin if things had gone differently that day.

Kate holds his hand tighter against the scar, feels the force in her bones. And then she pulls back just enough to lift his arm, to press a kiss against his palm. He closes his eyes at the action, tilts his forehead against hers, and lets his hand rest between hers against her cheek when she speaks.

"I'm glad you're here with me too, Castle."

He sighs, and the fingers at her back rises to caress her neck, thumb brushing at the wispy hairs, raising goose flesh on her arms. He continues the motion of his hand, slowly setting every nerve ablaze with his stroking. Yeah, she gets why Minnie gravitates toward him anytime he's near, why the kitten loves to be petted by him. It's intoxicating.

The detective herself could almost purr under his touch.

She keeps one hand wrapped around his at her cheek, but pulls the other away with a quick squeeze, dropping it to his front, back to the top button of the shirt that stretches tight across his broad chest.

Kate works the tiny disc between her fingers, pulling it free and revealing a little more skin to her intent perusal. Slowly she walks down to the next impediment, flicking her eyes up to see him watching her, studying her movements, absolutely absorbed, though his own hand has not given up its task.

But he's squeezing now, massaging muscles that tighten too quickly, taming the tension brought on by too much time hovering over paperwork and not enough sleep. His thumb presses down on a particularly tender spot, and she can't stifle the groan that escapes her lips.

He stills completely.

"Castle," she murmurs, and his eyes ascend from her hands, linger at her mouth and then finally meet her gaze. "Harder."

* * *

><p>This is what a heart attack feels like, isn't it?<p>

She stands topless in front of him, her fingers moving against his chest in the slowly devastating process of unbuttoning his shirt, and now she's groaning and telling him to press harder. The faithful muscle pounds under his ribcage and he's certain it's never worked this much in his entire life.

She gets the second button undone and looks him in the eye for a moment before she leans forward to brush her lips against his sternum, laughing at the shudder her action produces.

Actually, he must have suffered the heart attack already. Because surely this is heaven.

"Hey," she says softly, tilting back to look at him. "I was serious. That felt really good. But deep pressure would be even better."

It takes him a moment to restart his breathing, and when he finally does, she's regarding him with no small measure of amusement in her eyes. But affection resides there too, tenderness and love finding a home in her smile, in the laugh lines like parentheses on both sides of her mouth. Lines he's certain she didn't have when they met.

Both sets of hands resume their previous activities, his digging into her neck and shoulder, a little more strongly now, hers working at his still fabric covered chest, fingers light and teasing and torturous.

The pattern continues.

He compresses and stretches and manipulates her muscles, drawing groans and whimpers and the occasional gasp that all have his heart hammering and his mind going places he's never been with her. Not yet.

All the while, she unfastens buttons and kisses the newly visible skin, her lips descending ever lower, and all he can think is that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. If that's the case, then oh yeah, he's definitely getting stronger.

Somewhere around the fifth or sixth button (this is what she does to him - math has never been his strong suit, but usually he can at least count to ten), her mouth covers his belly button, his legs nearly buckle, and his eyes slam shut.

Wet.

Warm.

No, make that unbelievably hot.

Just as his hand rises from her noticeably looser shoulder to sink into the dark waves of her silky hair, he feels the swish of her tongue against his skin.

His fingers tighten at her scalp and she does it again, laves the inside of his belly button, swirling around the small crevice.

Air rushes out of his lungs, and he can tell by the feel of her lips that as she swipes her tongue against him one more time, she's smiling.

It's only then that he realizes her hands have left his shirt, migrated to the backs of his thighs to brace herself, and her fingers are slowly inching toward the hem of his boxers.

He opens his eyes to find her watching him, her gaze dark green and brown, sprinkled with gold - sunlight shining on the forest floor through a canopy of old growth.

She's gorgeous.

He pulls his hand from her curls, brushes an errant lock behind one ear, and feels a tightening in his throat when she closes her eyes under the touch.

"Do you know how beautiful you are?" he whispers, continuing to stroke her forehead, her cheek, whatever part of her he can reach.

Her face flushes and she turns slightly to press it into his stomach, her hands halting their climb up the backs of his legs. His fingertips follow the contour of her ear from the hard cartilage to the soft lobe and back, over and over as her warm breath washes over his belly.

After a long moment, her fingers move again, resume their ascent, and when they reach the bottom curve of his well, bottom, he can't help the slight forward thrust of his hips. He feels her grin against his abdomen.

She's copping a feel and apparently enjoying it quite a bit. Either that or she just loves to torture him.

Maybe both.

Her mouth opens against his skin once more, but instead of using her tongue, she nibbles her way back to his belly button, nipping sharply at the inward curve of his flesh.

His lips part on a quick inhale, and he's not surprised when she looks up at him with a mischievous arch to her eyebrow, chin still pressed to his skin.

"No lint," she pronounces.

Okay, maybe a little surprised. He laughs, watches as her face bobs with the contraction and release of his diaphragm.

"I try to practice excellent navel hygiene."

She nods seriously, and before he has a chance to process exactly what's happening, her hands have deserted his rear and returned to slide the last two buttons through their holes.

Kate slithers (because there's no other word his writer's mind can conceive to describe the hypnotizing undulation of her body) up his torso.

She hums as her hands skate over his shoulders, push his sleeves down his arms, her short nails scraping along his skin. His shirt falls to the floor with a barely audible flutter.

Her chest is already tight against his when she presses even closer, speaks into his ear, voice lower than he's ever heard it.

"Cleanliness becomes more important when godliness is unlikely."

He turns his head and takes her mouth in a burning kiss, all teeth and tongue and blazing ardor.

She's panting when he separates their lips.

"One," he says, the word rough with the heat generated by her proximity, "quoting P. J. O'Rourke? Incredibly sexy."

She purses her lips in that hidden smile that he loves.

"And two," he goes on, "are you implying that we'll be doing some sinning?"

She chuckles.

"I'm not implying anything."

He raises an eyebrow in question.

"No?"

She shakes her head, drops her gaze to his lips for a moment and then brings it back to meet his own, her dark eyes smoldering and sending all of his blood rushing quickly south.

"I'm flat-out telling you, Castle," she says slowly, and suddenly it's nearly stifling in the room, and his remaining clothes are far too tight. "I'm gonna have my wicked way with you."


	5. Chapter 5

Skin.

Warm and smooth. Soft against her own. Softer maybe than she'd expected, but then she remembers his conversation with the boys a couple years ago about skincare products and the cursed "barber in a can" shaving cream that had gotten him in so much trouble with Ryan and Esposito.

So he likes to take care of himself. He dresses well. He knows how to cook (he offered her another s'morelet this morning but she turned him down, telling him to save it for special occasions and then ignoring the leer he sent her way along with the implications that he certainly considered today a special occasion; he made pancakes instead). He smells fantastic. And he has soft skin.

None of that makes him any less of a man. No, judging by the feel of him against her, he's all man, and more man than many.

Not that she has first hand knowledge just yet. He's taking his time. She knew he would. But this, this is agony.

They're still several feet from the bed. Moving closer, yes, but only an inch at a time, only when his mouth on her collarbone causes her to stumble back, only when her teeth at his jaw draw him forward.

She's close to frustrated. But he needs this, she thinks. Needs to show her exactly how much he loves her. Needs her to realize that his attention to detail applies to her too.

He must not realize that she knows already. She's known for years about the way little things she doesn't even consider catch his eye. She's known since that first time he showed up at a crime scene with coffee in hand - her coffee, made the way she likes it.

So she decides she can be patient. Her fingers map the topography of his bare back, following the trapezius from his left shoulder until it gives way to his spine and then tracing each ridge of his vertebrae. She scratches lightly at his lower back and he pushes toward her, hard and strong against her supple body.

She shudders - can't help it - when his teeth sink into her deltoid, and presses herself closer to him, lets herself fall further under his spell.

Skimming her hands across his shoulders and over to his biceps, she kneads the muscles, feeling the resistance under her fingers. His strength - it's something for which she hasn't given him enough credit.

There's the physical aspect, of course, and he has more than proven himself capable of backing her up as her partner at work. He's moved freezers and tackled suspects and beat a hired assassin senseless. His strength, his courage in the field merit no question.

But it's more than that. It's strength of character too. And though she'd initially perceived him as shallow and lacking any of the qualities she would seek in a partner (in either sense of the word), she can see now the good man who has been there all along. He made a way and a name for himself, quite literally in the case of the latter. He single-handedly raised an smart, amazing, confident daughter. He took his mother in when she had nowhere else to go.

And he's come back every time Kate has kicked him out, shut him down, and told him he didn't belong. He has persisted when no other man has.

"Castle," she whispers and he turns his head, nose brushing her shoulder before his lips slide open against her neck.

"Mmm?" he hums against her skin, fingers stroking at her sides, apparently unwilling to break from his careful tactile - and oral - examination of her body.

His fingers brush against the side of her breast at the same time as his tongue sneaks up to lash at the spot just behind her ear, and she forgets entirely what she was going to say. Screw patience.

"Kate?" he asks, removing his mouth from her neck when she doesn't answer. "What is it?"

She untangles her fingers from his hair (when did that happen, exactly?), and smooths the parts that are already messy and sticking up at angles.

"Castle," she repeats, sliding her hand over to his ear, giving it a little tug until his head pops up and his eyes meet hers. "Finish what you started. Undress me."

* * *

><p>He won't make her ask twice.<p>

He likes slow, careful, exploratory. At least, that's what he wants this time, this first of what he hopes to be many, many times with Kate. But he's sensing that maybe he's been taking it a little too slow, and she's getting impatient. So he'll speed it up.

Three steps, his body crowding hers, and he's laying her back on the bed, hands on her still-covered hips, intent on meeting her demands - and now.

But then her hair fans out across the pillow and he has to stop. Has to savor this and imprint it onto his memory.

He's imagined this moment hundreds of times since that fateful night at his book launch party. He's had visions of her dark locks strewn across the sheets, come-hither eyes staring up at him lustfully, pink lips curling in the tiny smile he knows she sometimes allows when she's enjoying herself but doesn't want him to see how much.

But this - his imagination doesn't even begin to capture this moment.

Her face is flushed, rosy with arousal and want and happiness. Her eyes burn into his, loving and gentle and needy. Her fingers dance up his arm, stroking their way over his shoulder until she can cup his cheek in her hand, the pad of her thumb brushing under his eye.

It's too much.

He closes his eyes, expects he'll wake up at any moment from the best dream he's ever had. Because she can't possibly be looking at him like that. Can't possibly be half-naked and already bearing mouth-shaped purpling proof of his attentions to her collarbone. Can't possibly have told him that she loves him too, is in love with him.

It has to be a dream. And if it is, he wants to go back to reality now before it gets any more difficult, before he has any more images in his head that he can't exorcise, any more aches that he can't ease.

"You going to make me do all the work?" she asks teasingly, her voice breaking though his thoughts.

He doesn't open his eyes, just shakes his head.

"I'm dreaming," he whispers. "I have to be dreaming."

Her hand on his cheek rises to card through his hair.

"No, Rick," she says. "You're not dreaming. Look at me."

He shakes his head again, and for a few seconds she says nothing, does nothing to refute his theory.

And then her hand deserts him and he knows without a doubt, that he's about to wake up.

"Castle," she calls, and there's the authoritative, slightly annoyed tone he recognizes.

Hmm, her voice is near, and if she's the one calling for him, maybe he fell asleep in his chair by her desk or on the couch in the break room. That would be...okay. At least he'd get to see her, talk to her upon waking, even if she did sound a bit miffed at him.

"Castle," she repeats, a little louder this time.

And then there's a sharp pain shooting through his chest, and his eyes snap open.

She's there, beneath him on her bed, nude from the waist up, raising one eyebrow and smirking at him.

"Now do you believe me when I tell you it's not a dream?"

He shifts to balance his weight on one arm, lifts his other hand to rub across his still tingling nipple.

"Did you have to twist so hard?"

She shrugs, an amused smile flirting with her lips, her eyes twinkling.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, partner."

Oh, two can play at that game.

"Getting desperate, are you?" he leers, expecting a blush maybe, or a slap on the arm, or God forbid, another twist of his nipple.

Instead, she lifts her body and presses herself up into the vee of his legs. He groans, unprepared somehow for this side of her. Though really, he shouldn't be. Not when she tells him he can fantasize later. Not when she knows the difference between factory and custom leather cuffs. Not when she matches him innuendo for innuendo.

"I could just do it myself," she offers, and oh, that is not what he was expecting.

He drops his weight onto her, pinning her underneath him, and takes her mouth in a fierce kiss, hands bracing himself on either side of her head. He can feel her breasts flattened against his chest, heart beating faster by the second. His teeth nip at her bottom lip and then across her jaw, down to her neck.

She stops him with a tweak of his ear as he reaches her clavicle and he lifts his head to meet her heated gaze.

"So just to be clear, you don't want me to handle it on my own?"

He growls, and goes back for one more swift kiss on the mouth before returning to the task at hand of working his lips and teeth down her body.

"That won't be necessary," he tells her, the words muffled as he grins against her breast when she gasps at the wet slick of his tongue. "I'm more than happy to help."

He looks up for just a moment to find her watching him, lips parted, breathing more heavily than usual. She nods and her fingers delve into his dark hair, holding him closer.

"Mmm," she moans, hips thrusting upwards into his. "I was hoping you'd say that."


	6. Chapter 6

"Castle, no!"

She struggles against his grip, but he holds her down and does it again. She gasps, pushing up on her elbows to look at him, to see if there's any way she can escape.

No such luck. His broad shoulders pin her legs to the mattress, and he's too heavy for her to shove him off.

She settles for glaring at him instead, but he just gives her a wicked grin in response, lowering his mouth to her hipbone, getting a good seal, and then huffing wetly against her skin.

Her breathless laugh mingles with the noise of the third raspberry he's blown on her, the sounds echoing through her bedroom.

He lifts one hand from her knee - where he probably placed it so she couldn't kick him in the stomach when her reflexes got the best of her - and coasts it up to rest on her rib cage.

She slides her own hand down from her collarbone, scoops his fingers up in hers, brushes her thumb back and forth across his knuckles.

This is what she's been missing, what she'd hoped she'd find in him. The man practically exudes heat sometimes - and yes, she mentally groans at her own play on words - but she's had hot before.

Josh understood anatomy. Knew where to touch, what level of pressure to use to maximize their mutual pleasure. There's no doubt he was good at sex.

But Castle understands nuance. He understands subtext, and that sometimes what's not said or done is as important as what is. And he has an imagination. He's playful, and he frees her to be playful as well.

He'd stripped her of her pants the same way he'd done everything else - slowly, carefully, letting his strong fingers linger against the inseam as he pulled down the zipper, allowing his short nails to graze across her inner thighs as he tugged on the thin black fabric.

And then he let his lips trail up from her ankle, pausing to nuzzle at the ticklish back of her knee for a moment before proceeding up her thigh to her hip.

That's where he's spent the last couple of minutes, stroking and kissing and driving her crazy.

But of course, he's always driven her crazy, so really, that's nothing new.

Even the look on his face - that mixture of lust and purely tender affection - is one she has glimpsed before today.

What is new is the peace she sees in his gentle blue eyes, the contentment.

"Only you," she whispers, and lifts her other hand to rake it through his tousled dark hair about which he is usually so particular.

He smiles and props his chin on her recently tortured hipbone.

"Only me what?"

His voice is soft, velvety, his breath warm against her bare skin.

She squeezes his hand in hers and uses the other to brush the hair away from his forehead.

"Only you would blow raspberries on me in bed," she murmurs, and he grins. "Only you could make me laugh like this."

He drops his head, nudges his nose into the crease of her thigh, pressing a kiss against the border between fabric and flesh. The little gesture makes her breathing stutter, and his expression when he turns back to see her face causes her heart to race.

"Only you would let me," he says quietly, a gentle happiness infusing every word.

She laughs again.

"Actually, I seem to recall telling you to stop."

He shrugs, the skin of his chest sliding smoothly against her legs.

"Yeah, but you didn't mean it," he says cheekily, leaning down again to graze his teeth against her. "Besides, you didn't say your safe word."

She flicks his ear, shaking her head at him when he glances up.

"I don't have a safe word, Castle."

He clasps her hand tightly for a moment and then pulls out of her grip, leveraging himself up onto his knees between her legs. The writer looks her up and down, studying her, and she feels a full-body flush rising in her skin at his frank appreciation.

Setting a hand on either hip, he tucks his fingers under the waistband of her one remaining piece of clothing. His eyes meet hers, and her gaze drops to his mouth when his tongue flicks out to moisten his lips before he speaks.

"Might be a good time to decide on one then."

* * *

><p>He's never found dark blue cotton more attractive in his entire life. Of course, when she came to his loft Saturday, she'd only planned to spend the one night. And he knew she definitely hadn't planned to sleep with him. So it's not like she would have packed red lace.<p>

When she appeared in the kitchen that morning after her shower, he'd raised an eyebrow at her wardrobe. He'd figured she'd be wearing yesterday's clothes, or might have even borrowed some of his. The very thought of her in one of his shirts had his heart pounding.

But there she stood, dressed in black slacks and that green blouse.

"Habit," she'd told him. Packing double, just in case of a mishap, something she'd picked up as a rookie who often ended up doing dirty jobs.

And from childhood summer camp experiences as well – apparently it was always better to have extra underwear and socks.

Now, however, as much as he likes the looks of her *with* the cotton panties, he's fairly certain he'd prefer her without.

He watches her face the entire time.

His fingertips brush her skin, and her whole body twitches, but it's the subtle relaxation of her jaw muscles that tells him this is really, truly, exactly what she wants.

If he sensed any discomfort, any reluctance on her part, he'd stand up, get dressed, and – if she wanted – pretend tomorrow that this never happened.

But there's nothing, nothing in her eyes but pleasure and desire and oh…love.

He presses his lips to her left kneecap, lifting her leg slightly to pull the cloth past the joint.

Castle knows, knows without a doubt, that Kate will tease him later - possibly for years, hopefully for years - about how she had to resort to nipple twisting to get him to undress her.

But really, if someone had told him on Saturday when he hung up the phone after her crime scene call that he'd be nearly naked in bed with Kate Beckett less that forty-eight hours later, he'd have laughed.

Maybe the idea that he could have been dreaming is a little ridiculous to her, but not to him. Not when he's been waiting for this moment for years, been in love with her for ages. Not when so much has changed so rapidly that his head is practically spinning.

It's been only two days - not even that really - and both of their secrets have come out. They've laughed together, cried together, gone to sleep and woken up together. Together. It's a beautiful word.

This is it for him. And he thinks it might just be it for her as well.

He curls his fingers around her ankle and pulls the fabric away, then repeats the step on the other side.

His eyes shut briefly of their own accord, but her voice calls to him, and he can do nothing but answer.

"Castle," she says softly, and he opens his eyes, lets them drift – finally – up her body, over the curves of her calves, past the strong lines of her thighs.

He pauses. Can't help it. Her legs lay flat, but open, baring all to him, and he's hit by an overwhelming wave of need.

Forcing his examination to continue past her center, his eyes skim over her toned but soft belly, across her perfect breasts and the scars that mar, and yet somehow add to her beauty.

He reaches the long column of her throat, sees the muscles contract as she swallows, and proceeds to the defiant chin, the lips parted in a breathless smile, her slender nose, and finally her eyes, oh her eyes.

Her eyes have whispered her secrets to him for years, maybe since that first case when he found himself spinning a story, a tragedy, for her life and suddenly discovered that he was all too right in his theorizing. Her eyes spoke then of a bone-deep ache that he desperately wanted to ease.

But now, now they sparkle with delight and beckon him to her mouth, invite him to explore this uncharted territory freshly revealed to him.

He rocks forward on his knees and braces his hands on either side of her chest as he leans down to kiss her. Her mouth meets his hungrily, opening to him and letting him devour her. One strong, but delicate hand curls around his neck, fingers playing with his short hair. The other palms his chest for a moment, nails rasping against his pecs, then slides under his arm to knead at his back.

A jolt of want shoots through his veins when she presses her head back into the pillow. He tries to follow, but she breaks from his mouth, her hot breath washing over his lips.

"Closer, Castle," she begs. "I need you closer."

He dips his head to kiss her again, but she turns so his lips land on her cheek instead.

"Kate?" he asks, confused.

But then her fingers feather down his spine until they can slip under the waistband of his boxers, brushing the sensitive skin over the sacrum and sending his hips jerking into hers.

She groans in unison with him and then hooks her thumb into the elastic and pushes down, her other hand deserting his neck to aid its partner.

"Get these off," she insists, voice low and dangerous, and he doesn't hesitate to shift his weight onto one elbow so he can have a free hand to comply with her demands as quickly as possible.

The change presses his entire torso firmly into hers and he has to take a deep breath to regain any coherent thought at the still-new feel of her breasts against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and twists his body and tugs roughly on his boxers to get them over his hips, right leg bending as she helps him with one side, and then the left as he forces the fabric down the other.

This would be infinitely easier if he rolled to her side, or pushed himself off so he could use both hands. But he can't bring himself to desert the feel of her body flush with his. Not even for a moment.

She turns her head and sinks her teeth into his earlobe and then her leg is wrapping around his lower thigh, foot pressing against the back of his knee and sliding the fabric down until he can shake it off. She repeats the action on the other side, and he kicks off the boxers completely, sending them flying away to who knows where.

Fingers digging into the muscles, her hands on his rear pull him closer as her legs wrap around him further until they are perfectly aligned and he can feel ever inch of her body against his. One small shift, and...

He grunts and she laughs softly in his ear. How she's even capable of speech he isn't sure, but then, he *has* always thought she's extraordinary. And no more than at this moment when she whispers in his ear, her husky voice joyful and wanting and absolutely bewitching.

"We do make a pretty good team, you know?"


	7. Chapter 7

One shift. One tiny movement and he would have been exactly where she wanted him.

But she knows this man. Her partner.

She knows the way his eyes almost disappear into the crinkles when he laughs – really laughs.

She knows how his whole posture becomes tense when he's worried about Alexis and how his chest puffs up when he gets to brag on his daughter – his greatest accomplishment.

She knows the texture and warmth of his fingers as he passes over her daily coffee – the good morning kiss he's been faithfully offering her for years, long before she understood its significance.

And at the moment, she's becoming intimately acquainted with the fact that how he loves her is the same as how he tells a story – the way he gives attention to the details, how he presents twists and turns and surprises, building the tension with rising action until the pressure is nearly unbearable, until the moment when all is revealed: the climax.

Then comes the fall, and after that, the resolution.

But unlike one of his novels, the resolution doesn't mark the end of their story.

No. For her, for them, it's barely even the beginning.

She pants heavily beneath him as he kisses his way up her stomach, moist lips sliding easily across her over-sensitized skin until he reaches her mouth.

"Okay there?" he whispers, a smug smile gracing his lips when he pulls away to meet her eyes.

She lifts her head just enough to nuzzle into his cheek where his own scent is layered with hers, not sure if she has the strength at the moment to give him anything beyond that small gesture of affection.

"More than," she murmurs. "Just feeling a little boneless right now."

He dips his head, presses an open-mouthed kiss just below her ear, and shifts to her side, his knee hitching over her thigh as he slides one arm under her neck, the other tracing soothing patterns on her belly.

Pillowed on his bicep, she rolls to face him, his leg slipping between hers. She lifts her fingers to feather across his cheek.

"You're amazing, you know?"

He smirks, and she flicks his ear.

"Not like that," she says, and he raises one eyebrow. "Okay, maybe like that too, but that's not what I meant."

His smile softens into tenderness, and he turns his face into her hand, lips grazing her palm.

"How am I amazing then?"

She brushes her thumb under his eye, up the ridge of his nose, across his brow. Blue disappears beneath his lids and he lets out a soft, contented sigh that warms her wrist with his exhale.

"You have this way," she starts, hesitates for a moment until his eyes open again. "This way of making me forget all the bad, all of the evil I deal with everyday."

One corner of his mouth quirks up, just a little. His gaze is intense, but gentle, loving.

"I'm glad, Kate," he says quietly. "I'm glad I can do that for you."

She moves from the little scar on his forehead to card her fingers through his messy hair. Messy hair that is entirely her fault. He hums under her touch, the vibrations against her hand sending a lightning bolt of need all the way down to her toes, a shock to her already saturated nervous system.

"You do so much for me," she continues. "So much more than you know."

He studies her, mingled determination and devotion flaring in his eyes.

"If there's ever anything I can-"

She cuts him off with a finger against his lips.

"I know, Rick," she promises. "I already know."

Her hand drifts from his face to his bare chest, his skin slick with the exertion of bringing her pleasure. Her heartbeat is speeding up again - perhaps jumpstarted by that little hum, by that fierce spark she saw in his gaze - and it seems his own heart is determined to match her pace.

But there's still something in his eyes, something needy beyond the physical desire she can feel against her hip.

"Castle?" she whispers. "Okay there?"

He nods, but then closes his eyes, his hand leaving her stomach to clutch her fingers against his chest.

"Just need a minute," he says, and his voice is a little hoarse, a little more uneven than it was when he mumbled a wide range of interesting things against the inside of her thigh a few minutes ago.

"Take your time," she assures him, relaxing her tightly wound muscles and banking the embers of her want. "I'll be right here when you're ready."

He waited for her.

And now she waits for him.

* * *

><p>She doesn't move her hand from his chest, and he's grateful for that. He realizes he's probably worrying her. After all, what could possibly slow him down when he's got a certain naked detective in his arms?<p>

But he has this sudden compulsion to lay bare for her more than just his body.

"You don't know, Kate," he says finally, his eyes still closed, his voice more raspy to his ears than usual. "You don't know everything you've done for me. How you saved me."

He does look at her then, sees the confusion in that adorable furrow of her brow, the doubt in her eyes, flecked gold in the sunlight that filters through her windows.

"What do you mean?" she asks, curling her fingers against his chest, giving him an encouraging smile. "And are you saying that I'm ahead in the standings? Of who has saved whom the greatest number of times, I mean."

He chuckles at that, at her proper use of who and whom, at the memory of their friendly, if heated, debate about which saves really counted.

They'd argued at the dinner table in front of his family, but by mutual unspoken agreement were vague about most of the circumstances, making light of them whenever possible, concealing from his mother and daughter just how often they had come far too close to receiving a visit from a somber police officer bearing bad news.

But then he shakes his head, releasing her fingers to stroke his hand over her shoulder, down to her waist. He brushes along the side of her breast and she shivers, eyes darkening.

"I was floundering," he says softly. "You can ask Alexis. Or my mother. I hadn't written a word in the months since I'd sent the last Derrick Storm novel off to the publisher."

She pulls up the arm that has been partially trapped underneath her body, tucking her hand below her chin, settling in for the tale, perhaps.

"And then I met you," he continues, thumb rubbing slow circles just next to her belly button. "Suddenly, I had this brand new character demanding to be written. You gave me new stories."

His heart quickens at the surprise, the joy in every soft line of her face.

"Castle..." she breathes, and it might be a trick of the light but her eyes appear brighter, a little shinier than they were.

He squeezes her side, the skin warm under his palm.

"And then working with you these last three years," he says as his fingers push into the ribs at her back. "I'd never before felt like I was really doing something good, you know?"

Her hand coasts from his chest to curl around his neck, thumb stroking the line of his jaw.

"Don't sell yourself short, Rick," she tells him quietly, leaning forward to press her lips briefly to his. "You're good at quite a few things."

He leers and waggles his eyebrows. She rolls her eyes.

"Thank you," he laughs. "But I don't mean doing something well. I mean doing something good."

It's a grammatical distinction he feels compelled to point out to her. And not only because he's a writer.

"Something worthwhile," he continues, sliding his hand up and down her side in a slow, soothing motion. "Something that makes a real difference. You gave me that. You gave me purpose."

And suddenly she's launching herself into his embrace, all soft curves at his front and gripping fingers at his back. Her mouth finds his ear, her nose nudging at the shell. Her voice is full and giving.

"You were making a difference already," she says, her tone husky with need, the statement earnest and almost beseeching. "With every word you wrote, Richard Castle. Long before we met, you made a difference to me."

He tightens his arms around her, doesn't know what else to do with this new incarnation of the often stolid detective. Yes, she's been more open lately, freer with her emotions and her affections.

But this feels different. This feels even deeper than any of the other reactions they've drawn from each other in the past two days. And he's not going to hinder it by speaking just now.

"After my mother was murdered," she murmurs, and he reflexively holds her closer to his body. "I was drowning. Even more than my dad, in some ways. Until I found your books."

He stops breathing.

"You write justice, Castle, and hope, and no one else had been able to give me much of either."

Her words echo in his ears, the vibration of her voice resonating in his chest.

"Kate..."

She pulls back to meet his gaze, and for the first time, he realizes that when she launched herself at him, she managed to roll him onto his back.

And now, she's looking down at him, dark eyes filled with love and want, long legs bent at the knee, bracketing his hips. The blood that had seeped back into his brain while she came down from her high and then flooded it while they talked suddenly flows in the opposite direction once more.

"Your words saved me, Rick," she whispers, tilting forward to get at his mouth, her lips soft and tender and pliant as she trails kisses back to his ear.

"I love you," she sighs. "So very much."

He closes his eyes. Her whole body is rippling over him, and the only words he can think of are fortunately the only ones he needs to say.

"I love you, too."

She brushes one more kiss against his mouth and pulls away.

"Look at me," she commands quietly. "And just remember: we've got all day."

His eyes pop open.

"All day?"

Then she shifts against him and his hips jerk and his breathing stutters and suddenly her warmth surrounds him completely and he stares up at her in joyous surprise, the expression on her face one he hopes he sees often and never forgets.

"Oh, Kate..."


End file.
